


Feast or Famine

by mouschie



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Doctor!Cass, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kayfabe Compliant, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-11-30 16:16:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11467152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mouschie/pseuds/mouschie
Summary: Circa 2020 - WWE has been absent of Colin Cassady for almost three years, SAWFT is long forgotten, and Enzo Amore fought solo through the ranks to earn his Intercontinental Championship title. Beneath the surface, he begins to unravel. Can the same hands that pulled him apart at the seamspossiblysew the pieces of him together again? Doctor!Cass.





	1. Champion of Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Tags will be updated accordingly with new chapters. This is my first lengthy piece, enjoy it.

“God, this is all I ever wanted, y’know?” Enzo Amore breathes, gazing down at the WWE Intercontinental Championship belt adoringly, before slapping his hand over the decorative gold plate. 

“Been there,” Dolph Ziggler chuckled, strapping on a pair of black knee-pads. Curly brown strands of wet hair hung down his shoulders and tickled his biceps, “Done that, like three times.” 

Merely, Enzo chuckled to himself. He reached for a bottle of cold water sitting atop one of the lockers, pouring it over his head. A small television hanging from the ceiling within the locker room played live footage of the current in-ring match. Samoa Joe was putting Baron Corbin in a Coquina Clutch. God help him if he ever stepped in the ring with the Samoan. 

“I’ll bet ya ten dollars on Joey,” Enzo grinned, flashing a set of white teeth. 

“Nah, that’s ten you’d win,” Dolph muttered, seconds before the bell chimed, signaling the end of a very predictable match. Blood was coming from someone, somewhere in the ring. It was kind of comical to see Baron laying on his back as Joe pounded two fists on his own chest victoriously. 

Enzo wrinkled his nose at the thought of rolling around in whoever’s fluids stained the mat. 

“Pretty gross, huh?” 

Enzo doesn’t quite know how to respond, because he’s seen much worse. Sometimes, he thinks the other wrestlers are saints compared to him. Sometimes, he wonders if his place is even inside of the ring, doubts his own relevancy in the presence greatness - people like Daniel Bryan or Ric Flair. 

There are reasons why. 

Before Enzo’s mind is swept away in the whirlwind of those reasons, he’s being ushered with a hand on his shoulder along the backstage corridor. He disassociated again, and bees swarm the inside of his stomach when he realizes he’s next. 

The air is thick with clapping, cheers, and vocal chords straining to sing his entrance theme. It’s so lively, he can barely hear Dolph – his best friend, saying, “Go get ‘em”. Enzo hasn't considered changing his entrance theme even once over the years, because it's become a piece of his wild personality. He loves the beat, and knowing this is _his_ song, nobody else can take it from him. 

Tonight is one of the nights where things are good. He feels light, dancing towards the ring, away from the self-conscious thoughts and anxieties. The cameras capture his white-toothed grin at every angle. Adrenaline pushes forcefully through his veins, and the ropes fit into his grip as perfect as ever. He whips his cheetah-print bandana from around his forehead, tossing it gleefully into a group of frantic hands. 

He lives for moments like these. 

Kurt Angle had told him earlier, the night’s match was a handicap two-on-one, without his championship title on the line. Knowing that much relieved some of the pressure, allowed him to take his belt off without feeling a looming sensation of loss after entering the ring. 

Shinsuke Nakamura and Hideo Itami were forces to be reckoned with. They both climbed individual ladders of success through the years, inevitably resulting in the perfect tag-team. Enzo could faintly recall watching Hideo’s matches from the backstage area at NXT while Shinsuke made sporadic appearances SmackDown. Both men began serving as mentors to one another, then became inseparable following a re-draft two years later. 

Sometimes, Enzo wishes he had a tag-team partner again. Maybe it would make everything better. The bitter voice at the back of his head, always resentful, forces him to deny every tag-team suggestion the General Manager throws his way.

Once their music has ended and the crowd settles, the conditions of the match are read aloud. Enzo recites them silently and with perfection, because he’s been here so many times before. 

Two-on-one handicap. His weight is 210lbs. Their combined weight is 395lbs, to no surprise. 

Shinsuke and Hideo operate in perfect synchronization. It’s the lesser experienced Hideo who wears down Enzo first, and leaves Shinsuke to finish him off. It’s Enzo’s speed that gets him so far into the match, a full ten minutes non-stop before fatigue sets in. Within that time, he managed to knock Hideo onto his back and off the apron, turning him into a rolling mess on the floor. Nakamura's utter speed was enough to make Enzo dizzy. He’s running on empty fumes and a desire for a payout as good as the work he’s putting in. 

Thrown back into a German Suplex by Shinsuke, Enzo is certain the match is over. 

Until it’s not. 

Pain blossoms somewhere towards the back of his skull and behind his eyes. It’s a feeling he pushes down deep, submerges it underneath everything else. The match is a good fifteen minutes in, and Shinsuke looks about as worse for wear as he does. While Hideo simply appeared worn, Enzo managed to plant a small gash at Nakamura’s brow with an earlier dropkick. Pride swells within his chest, and fuels him up to both feet. With the crowd chanting for him, he powers forward into a diving crossbody, launching himself horizontally across the sprawled body of his opponent. Focusing, he can feel the heave of the chest beneath him as he goes for the pin. 

Three counts later, the bell chimes. The announcer declares Enzo the winner, and it takes him several seconds of fumbling and falling over himself before he can raise an arm in victory. His throat is dry, and the glare of the lights above him are unbearably bright. 

Still, he manages to briefly celebrate for the sake of everyone watching. He pushes out one victory lap around the ring, holding the Intercontinental Championship title in his hand. 

Backstage, Dolph and Carmella are waiting for him with a bottle of cold water and a rag. She’s all smiles as he saunters into the hallway, throwing her arms around his neck. He wants to fall back right there and then. 

“Congrats on another win!” she beams, clapping her hands excitedly. It’s one thing Enzo loves about Carmella – her upbeat attitude. Even after his worst matches, he can count on her. If there’s ever a time where he can’t smile, she does it for him. 

“Yeah,” Dolph grins, “Hey, if you wanna come back to my place and celebrate with some drinks, the offer’s open,” he nods his head towards the exit suggestively, and Carmella shoots Enzo the expectant puppy-dog-look. It's _almost_ impossible to resist. 

He wants to join them. He really does. 

But he hurts. The back of his neck is sore, and his palms smelled faintly of dried blood. The only place he truly wanted to be was in bed. 

Enzo Amore wants to nurse his ache the best way he knows how, and it doesn’t involve being around either of them.


	2. Reasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It became evident that he needed Cass more than Cass needed him, and It took him years after Colin Cassady left the WWE to come to terms with that.

“Oh, _fuck_ …”

Enzo Amore drags in a trembling breath, squeezing the white tourniquet around a tattooed forearm and pressing down on the syringe. It pierces through his skin and a vein, filling it with liquid dope. 

These aren’t his proudest moments, but he can’t help himself. 

He thinks his mind and body are fucked up sometimes. They make him feel like an ant beneath a magnifying glass when he’s inside of the ring, on-spot and burning up. In contrast, the narrow corridors backstage feel tighter and closer together every time, trying to squeeze him in. Sometimes, the crowd chanting his name sounds like two thousand disapproving boos’. It makes him break out into a cold sweat before his matches, gets his hands all clammy and cold.

When he feels the swarm of bees nesting inside of his chest and can hear no more than his heartbeat, he knows he’s coming down and crashing from the drugs. 

He knows he needs more to be okay again. 

Enzo could pathetically label himself the victim if he wanted to, because he truly didn’t mean for any of this to happen. It was the unintended result of too many losses at once, and hanging around the, "wrong crowd at the wrong time". It happened before he found Carmella and Dolph to be his closest friends, but even they couldn’t stop what they didn’t know about. Sometimes he wondered, if they met earlier… 

“All fuckin’ right…” he sighs to the ceiling, to nothing in particular, falling back into bed. The drugs ease his heartbeat and wandering mind, letting the anxiety stay at bay. For several hours at least, he didn't have to be afraid of his thoughts. 

He thinks about Orlando, where he’s going to be for the next two weeks, and the dusty motel bed beneath him. Whenever he’d come down for tapings and shows while wrestling in the indie circuit, he’d stay with relatives and close friends. They’d make large family dinners, sitting around a television to watch him. There was always such a big to-do about it, Enzo felt like a genuine star inside and outside of the ring because of them. 

Sometimes, he misses it.

Not enough to give up the habit, though. Never enough. 

Enzo had told his mother a year ago about his dependence on heroin, confided in her with tears in his eyes and pride pinned to his throat. He was hoping she would provide him with guidance and help – isn’t that what mothers were for? 

The next thing he could recall was sobbing at the dining room table, years of his clothing uselessly tossed onto the lawn, his suitcases rolled onto the front porch. She kept repeating 31-year-old Enzo Amore was, “just like his father, hopeless, utterly hopeless,”. She forbids him from returning, or speaking to his younger sister until he was clean for at least five years. 

It was a lengthy explanation as to why he felt like a tourist in the city he’d called, “home”. It wasn’t a good excuse for the head-rush, discarded pile of sweat-stained clothes in the corner, and half-empty Chinese takeout boxes on the bathroom counter. 

His mind takes him elsewhere, to the match earlier that night. 

He wonders when Hideo will betray Shinsuke, because he knows it’s almost inevitable. Shinsuke will teach Hideo everything he needs to know, and build him up to greatness. Hideo will only tear him down in the end. Every tag-team succumbed to the same fate – The Vaudevillians, The Usos, hell, even The New Day turned on one another in a surprise twist. It's never a good idea to get comfortable relying on anyone in the industry, because they could be taken away _so_ quickly.

What he thinks about the most, is the tag team he once had, and the only partner he ever had – Colin Cassady. 

Whenever Enzo stepped into a ring with Cass, everything felt right, and without all the drugs. He felt undefeatable, even if they lost that night, and the night afterwards. It was genuine euphoria, and the best four years of his wrestling career. Their in-ring chemistry was outstanding, even without all the choreography. 

But it went beyond that. At least, to him. 

Sometimes, when seven-foot-tall Cass put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, the constant hurricane of emotions that often churned inside of Enzo would grow calm. Whenever Enzo’s back ached after a match, Cass would work out his knots. He did it so often, he memorized exactly where to touch. After some particularly tiring matches, Cass would drive them back to the hotel and heat a bubble bath for Enzo whilst he drank beer and watched a movie in the other room. Enzo wouldn’t admit to all the occasions he laid in his separate bed across from Cass’, counting the seconds between the rise and fall of his bare chest. 

His heart swelled for Cass, and he realized it too late. 

Vince McMahon and Kurt Angle unanimously decided that Enzo & Cass were losing their traction with the audience. To regain viewer interest, they convinced himself - and Cass - that a storyline break-up would be “perfect”. 

_God_ , if Enzo didn’t think that was the worst thing ever. He quietly fought against it, trying to convince both men of alternatives because he needed Cass. He’d never admit it to the man himself, but Enzo didn’t feel like himself without Cass in the ring with him. 

Their storyline separation felt entirely real to Enzo, like they were truly breaking up. The insults Cass threw at him went in one ear and out the other. If anything, Enzo felt honored to have his ex-partner’s hands carry him before throwing him lifelessly onto the ramp. Half of him laid there before an audience chanting on the feud, and the other half of him was walking backstage without a second glance. 

In the coming weeks afterwards, Cass was responsible for damage control, and Enzo knew it. Despite their in-ring “hatred”, he’d try being incredibly kind and warm. He offered reassurance of their bond constantly, and Enzo had never felt more thankful. Most of the time, Cass knew just the words to say to soothe the degrading inner voice filling Enzo's head with rolling waves of doubt.

One night, though, he snapped. 

Cass was booked for a flight to Austin, Texas for a taping, which Enzo was unsurprisingly not selected for. It was the third time this had happened. Enzo wasn’t mad over the television screens seeing more of Cass and less of himself – he just didn’t like the growing distance between them. 

When he voiced this to Cass one night, three years ago, he was met with an irritated sigh. 

“Look, ‘Zo, I love having you around. But… you gotta be your own man sometime, you know?”

“I think I’m doin’ _pretty_ good at that,” he said, sharply. 

“I didn’t want to be the man to bring it up,” Cass began as he tied his damp hair into a ponytail, “But you know everything I said to you during our breakup on RAW? About you opening your mouth constantly and not thinking first?” 

Enzo’s mouth opened like he wanted to speak, because he really did. 

“I just think you should stop following me around like a lost puppy, alright? It’s not good for either of us,”. 

Sometimes, Enzo thinks the shock of that sentence hasn’t fully set in three years later. Their in-ring feud had become very real within that moment, and he was entirely lost for words. His mouth hung agape, pale eyes as wide as saucers. What mortified him even more, was how casually Cass turned his back and wet his toothbrush without another word. 

He didn’t like the feeling of stepping in the ring, naked and vulnerable. Whenever he was put in a match against Cass, the anger and passion he put into every move became real. His nights were spent in cheaper hotels across the U.S, in a king-sized bed shared with only himself and some dust. They drifted apart, and Enzo ached in ways that no massage could quell. 

It became evident that he needed Cass more than Cass needed him, and It took him years after Colin Cassady left the WWE to come to terms with that. 

Enzo lazily wrapped himself up in the stiff bedsheets and blankets, television glowing faintly with some low-quality, fuzzy image. His eyes felt comfortably heavy behind a mop of messy blonde hair.

The heroin head-rush he felt originally was dissipating, leaving a familiar, foggy aftermath he settled into for the night.


	3. The Comedown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he tried to lift his head, his eyes refused to open, and stale words clung to the tip of his tongue.

Unwelcome daytime light flitted in through the blackout curtains, causing Enzo Amore to stir and groan. Somewhere beyond the paper-thin walls, muffled voices were yelling at one another, but he was too far gone in a post-sleep daze to care. 

Procrastination was the devil’s work, and Enzo served as living proof in the mornings. _Especially_ after shooting up the night before, he wanted little to do with anything beyond the squeaky mattress and cheap blankets. His eyes lingered upon the television mindlessly, then trailed to nearby empty Chinese takeout containers, before finally resting on an empty Budweiser. 

God, he could do so much better than a place like this. In fact, he’d half-expected to see a cockroach scaling the wall. 

WWE offered nothing but exceptional payout to its’ champions, and he was certainly no exception. He recalled the time Nikki Bella chastised him for living, “like a servant” when he could afford some five-star hotel with an ocean view. His excuse to everyone was, “excellent money-saving skills” for a permanent place of his own, where he could live a five-star dream someday. 

Enzo wouldn’t admit he was most comfortable like this, and wasn’t going to be swayed out of his comfort zone with monetary rewards. 

All at once, a knock on the door snapped him out of his cloudy thoughts. 

“Enzo!” a pause, “This is your room… right?!”

The wrestler sucked his lower lip between his teeth at Carmella’s voice, thought about how he should most definitely not answer.

“Look, I know this might be awkward,” he could hear her closer – the woman must have been literally pressing her face into the door, “But, your silver Lexus is parked right outside, and we both know you don’t go for walks this early in the morning,”. 

There was no winning against Carmella. 

“Hol’ on!” he slurred, swinging an arm over the bed and forcing himself up. Despite the functionality of his brain, Enzo’s muscles felt slack and tired. 

He managed to find a used white t-shirt without an unbearable odor and all the wrinkles, throwing it over his head with a pair of khaki shorts. Not like it mattered, she had seen him in much less during their career. Still, the Intercontinental Champion wanted to retain part of his dignity. 

The shirt clung to his chest by a thin layer of perspiration. He was sweating out the drugs, and Enzo just hoped he didn’t smell too god-awful as he opened the door. 

“Good morning! Did I wake you up?” she smiled while taking a sip of what he could assume, judging by the distinct smell, was coffee. 

“Ya’ pretty much did,” Enzo was leaning in the doorway and squinting his eyes against the beam of light from outside. If he looked worse for wear, Carmella didn’t say anything, “Need somethin’? I’m pretty busy,”. 

“Is that so?” her grin was mischievous as she pretended to peek over his shoulder into the dim room, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I thought you might like to come to the Performance Center with me for a little training, you know? We have a live taping tomorrow, anyways…” Carmella winks at him then, and he’s not quite sure what to make of it. 

“I mean, sounds cool and all, but…-” 

“I heard through the grapevine they’ve got a hefty breakfast planned for anyone coming before noon, it’s ten minutes away, and we’ve got a little less than an hour to get our asses down there. C’mon, some real food could do you good,”. 

Enzo always tried to minimize anything he did after shooting up, because his body needed the comedown. But, who was he to deny Carmella and an offer of free food? 

“Alright, ya got me,”. 

Time moved slowly, and Enzo was thankful he wasn’t behind the wheel. Everything was still dream-like and hazy, cars passing by in colorful blurs. 

It’s during moments like these, where he can only fantasize about opening up to Carmella about his habit. Whenever he imagines telling anyone close to him, the only reaction he can think of is his mother’s. It’s a memory that makes him feel like cotton’s been shoved down into his throat, and dries his lips entirely before he can get a single word out. He knows she would be furious if she found out on her own, if WWE got their proverbial shit together and enforced the Wellness Policy with the same gusto they once did. All it would take – one incident of purely bad timing to end his career, dragging a five-year friendship with it. 

The Performance Center is busier than usual, and Enzo jokes with Carmella about the free food drawing a larger crowd. A series of long tables stretch from one end of the Dining Hall to another with various assortments of food. 

Visibly, there’s no shortage of meat and vegetables. 

Enzo doesn’t think he can do it, and he convinces Carmella to get her share. His body isn’t quite there yet, and the indistinct chatter occupying the air jostles his nerves. Too many bodies squeezed into one space, and he doesn’t like it. As he slips out the exit, Austin Aries bumps into him with enough force to almost make Enzo fall back against the wall. 

“Sorry, man,” it’s rushed, thrown over his shoulder with a sympathetic grin. 

Enzo Amore wrings his hands together anxiously, then quicksteps through the center until he reaches the training room. 

There’s a calming silence to it, aside from the repetitive clanging of weights every few seconds. It’s almost empty, in fact, with the exception of Seth Rollins and Roman Reigns. 

Both men are shirtless and have obviously been here for some time, judging by the strain of Roman’s muscles and the beads of sweat on Seth’s forehead. Seth bench presses with a pair of headphones around his neck as Roman lifts weights beside him. The sight is almost enough to make him jealous. 

“Hey, Enzo! What’s up, man?” they ask in synchronization, and he’d certainly hug them if not for the sweat. 

“Not much, not much,” and _fuck_ , he looks awkward standing there with his hands in his pockets.

Despite another blooming headache and the dead weight of his bones, Enzo strips off his shirt and climbs on the elliptical machine beside them. It’s a desperate attempt to look much less out of place. 

“Heard about that match last night, didn’t watch it yet,” Roman said without looking at anything in particular, “Put Nakamura and Itami on their backs, now that’s pretty cool,”. 

Roman Reigns was one of Enzo’s idols, back when he and Big Cass were still together. He was just as humble and warm outside of the ring, although they didn’t speak on a daily basis. Part of him always wished to be strong enough – independent enough – to be like Roman. They had the same mentality about tag-teams, because Roman also experienced giving too much of himself, only for it to be taken away. 

“Thanks, brother. Took a lot outta me, but here I am,”. As Enzo’s muscles strained on the elliptical, he wondered if he was even honestly _there_. 

Seth scoffed, “If you’re on an elliptical, are you really even here? Nobody uses those damn things anyway,”.

“What?” Enzo asked, high-pitched and dripping with sarcasm, “They’re good for your legs. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that. Maybe one of these things would be useful for ya,” he prodded at Seth’s year-long leg injury five years earlier, which had kept him out of the ring for some time and led to an entire re-creation of his image. He also knew that afterwards, Seth continued to experience some complications, and WWE eventually limited his wrestling style into something more tame and utterly un-Seth. 

“Kiss my ass,” he laughed, “Just like Shinsuke made you practically kiss his last night,”.

“Nah, I’ll be ya’ fuckin’ anything Itami and Nakamura probably kiss each other’s asses, if you know what I mean,”. Enzo raises his eyebrows suggestively, sending Roman and Seth into a fit of laughter. 

“Uh-huh. Bet they did last night,” Seth’s grinning ear to ear like a Cheshire as he turns his attention to Roman, “You’d know all about that, right? I mean, when we had Dean and all…” 

“Shut up,” Roman shakes his head, and despite the heaviness of the subject, he says the words through laughter. It’s taken them years to get to this point in talking about Dean Ambrose. 

Enzo doesn’t recall everything, isn’t an expert in analyzing the chemistry between them. He knows they once wrestled as The Shield, until their team became undone beneath the same destiny as himself and Cass. Seth was slated to betray Roman and Dean, who became inseparable afterwards. Unfortunately, the pairing was only temporary.  
Despite surviving the brand split, Dean was running on his final leg with the WWE altogether. Enzo tries not to think about it, because the paranoia and anxiety always seize him whenever he thinks about the Lunatic wrestler. 

It’s still a fresh wound, because he’s seen the gruesome reality of what he does, all in Dean’s fate. 

Nobody had told him directly, but Enzo Amore could figure it out on his own from Sports and Entertainment websites. He felt it backstage at RAW, when Dean didn’t show up and Roman could do no more than hang his head. The air hung thick with tension that night, because they’d lost someone who hadn’t even died. 

Dean was found in violation of the Wellness Policy, and management specified nothing beyond it. Roman was willing to open up before anyone else about the man he shared a bed with most nights, and how he’d succumbed to the pressure. It was the first time he’d seen a crack in Roman’s armor, heard it in his voice as he told Enzo, Seth, and a few others about Dean’s ongoing drug addiction. It began with occasional steroids, followed by opiates. The WWE let him off with a warning the first time, followed by a 60-day suspension for his second offense. 

Afterwards, he spiraled out of control. 

Enzo became so entangled in his thoughts of Dean, the world miles away from him. A resonating pain in his thighs snapped him back to reality, and he didn’t realize how much force he’d be putting into the eliptical. 

“Damn, I need a break,” Enzo sighed once he powered off the machine. His legs felt like gelatin and anxiety was twisting knots in his stomach. Suddenly, he really didn’t want to be here with these memories of Dean and his body screaming for more drugs to silence it. 

“You okay?” Roman asks, knowing entirely that Enzo is not okay. 

“Yeah, I’ll be good. Just gotta get some air,” he plays it off, heading for the door and leaving his shirt behind, forgotten on the bench. Nervously, Enzo digs his fingers into his forearms and scratches lightly over his tattoos. 

His body feels hot all over, and it’s like he’s walking on quicksand. 

Enzo knows Carmella isn’t willing to leave quite yet, but he hopes she won’t fault him if he does. 

It takes practically his entire body weight to push open one of the large exit doors, and the Florida heat coils around him like a blast furnace. His mind goes into overdrive, thinks about the very real possibility of a Wellness Check whenever he steps into the arena. Whether he refuses or not, he’s not enough of a face to get away with a warning. 

They were being generous to Dean, but Enzo can guarantee they wouldn’t hesitate in kicking him to the curb like yesterday’s garbage. 

Then what? He’s got enough money stashed up to last a solid month. Would he ever be welcomed into the ring again? Could Carmella look at him the same way? Would he decide his reputation is entirely tarnished and take to the streets like Dean? Would he never be allowed to see his mother and sister again? 

He’s going to be sick. 

Enzo’s anxieties get the better of him. Stopping in his tracks, the world a mixture of unrecognizable colors and shadows around him, he falls to his knees and retches into a trashcan propped against a pole. He tastes last night’s Chinese takeout, warm beer, and stomach acid. 

The putrid odor rising up from the trash doesn’t help, and his body shakes with another wave of vomiting in between breaths. 

“Hey, bud, you okay?” a man asks, too close for comfort. He replies with a whimper, blonde mop of hair hanging over the trash, pulling himself closer to it with both knees. 

“What’s wrong? Is he alright?” 

The voices begin to echo the same words over and over. Enzo saw spots before his eyes as he tried to swallow the bile. 

“I think we should call an ambulance,” a concerned woman spoke softly. 

Enzo tried lifting his head to communicate to the growing crowd that _no_ , he was okay. The last thing he wanted was a blood test, which would inevitably result in a prison sentence. At best, a drug rehab program. When he tried to lift his head, his eyes refused to open, and stale words clung to the tip of his tongue. 

He had no choice but to surrender to the black stretch of infinity behind his skull, the world around him turning upside-down.


	4. Coming Undone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes him all but two seconds to recognize the seven-foot tall figure occupying all the space in the room.

Bright fluorescent lights swim before Enzo’s tunnel vision and beyond his eyelids. He wants to scratch the space just above his nose because it fucking itches like no tomorrow, but his arm refuses to move.

“Wh’ th’ fuck...?” he mumbles, heavy head tilting to the side. 

There’s no answer from anyone, no voice to greet him back to reality. Aside from the muffled ringing of a distant telephone, and the gentle buzzing of whatever machinery was around him, the room was quiet. There’s no asking where he is, because he knows almost immediately. 

Blinking the fatigue away from his baby blue eyes, Enzo Amore analyzes the hospital room he’s been left in. He’s relieved that it doesn’t look like one of those long-term-stay hospital rooms with the windows and curtains, because he fucking hates hospitals. 

Just as he studies the conjoined bathroom and finds it more appealing to his straining bladder than anything, a knock at the door forces Enzo to launch himself back with a certain stiffness in the bed, as though he’d been caught in the midst of some horrible crime. 

“C’min…” he spoke, throat dry and sore from vomiting, not quite knowing what to expect.

“Wonderful, you’re awake,” the doctor speaks with a flat voice and try-hard enthusiasm. “Didn’t think it would be too long. How are you feeling?”

“Great, doc. Perfect,” although Enzo was in no position to crack jokes and sarcasm, he already wasn’t fond of the doctor, “I actually think I’m great enough to walk my ass outta that door,”. 

The tall brunette in his white coat scoffed, taking a seat at a computer desk parallel to Enzo’s bed. When his eyes followed the young doctor, he caught sight of an IV stuck inside his arm, dangerously close to one of the track marks left behind. 

The sleeveless hospital gown suddenly had him very self-conscious and alert, afraid someone could have looked too closely at his tattoos and saw evidence of his habit. 

“Believe me, I wish I could clear you, but your blood tests are still at the lab,”.

Shit. 

“Do you have any idea what might have happened?” 

He works to formulate the best bullshit lie he could – “Dunno, doc. The heat jus’ got to me, y’know? Haven’t really drank much fluids or ate nothin’. Had some alcohol,". 

There’s a tapping on the keyboard, and Enzo chews his lower lip nervously. 

On one hand, if they found results testing positive for heroin, the WWE Intercontinental Champion would become a known drug addict. But, if they were positive _and_ he lied about it, he'd be a drug addict and a liar. There was no winning.

“It would seem that way. Your general tests came back relatively normal, except your blood sugar was fairly disappointing,” Enzo lifts his index finger to find a bandage on it where they must have pricked him. Thinking about it now, the spot began to throb. 

“Your lab results should come back shortly. I’ll have my intern discuss them with you, and if everything checks out, we’ll just keep you a little longer to get some nutrients in you,”. 

To this, Enzo could only offer a stiff nod as the doctor left him alone with his thoughts, and the soft hum of the machines at his bedside. 

He imagines how it’s going to play out. They’ll leave him sitting here for another half hour in anticipation, heart hammering behind his skin. It’ll buy them enough time to contact the police department and let them know about the copious amounts of heroin found in a superstar wrestler’s bloodstream. 

Everyone always reached the end of their line, eventually. Maybe this would be his, a year later, in some dinky little hospital room - circa Downtown Orlando, 2020. 

He reflected on the events that led him here. It began three years ago with the loss of his tag-team partner, best friend, and the only other man he’d held space in his heart for. Months after, he was notified of the death of his father from an older brother. He and his dad weren’t particularly close after the divorce, hadn’t conversed in years, and Enzo wondered if he even remembered the color of his son’s eyes. Kicked out of his apartment abruptly, then lost possession of his beloved Chihuahua at the teeth of a stray Rottweiler. 

The consecutive losses back then had Enzo wondering – what else did he have to lose? 

He shot up for the first time at a high school reunion party in New Jersey, surrounded by wasted girls, and unattractive men whose breaths reeked of marijuana. It was the first time he had an, “experience” with another man. He couldn’t remember it the next day, but his ass was sore in the morning. 

Whoever had fucked him, also fucked him over. They took pictures of Enzo naked, vulnerable, and obviously high. Each one was messaged to him from an unknown number the next afternoon, demanded the wrestler “pay up” before the public knew about what Enzo Amore did on his paid vacations. 

Mentally, Enzo kicks himself for trusting too often, and loving too hard. He’s happy his mother doesn’t have to deal with him like he has to. 

Something catches the corner of Enzo’s eye abruptly, noticing a shadow just outside of his door. It looms there for a moment, distorted through the frosted glass. He props himself up on his elbows then, prepared to rush out and throw his arms around either Dolph or Carmella. He misses them right now, and could go for quality time together with his two favorite humans.

Two knocks, the door pulls back. 

Enzo’s pupils are blown as wide as saucers, and his heartbeat practically stops altogether.

It takes him all but two seconds to recognize the seven-foot tall figure occupying all the space in the room. The shock is evident on his face, mouth hanging agape, dumbfounded and lost for words. His fingers ball up into the bedsheets, grasping at them to stay anchored.

Cass.

He mouths the name through heavy air, like it was too holy to be spoken aloud. Part of Enzo was afraid that if he spoke his name, just like in his dreams, the silhouette before him would disappear into thin air. He’d awake in a cold sweat, alone, wondering… _why him?_

The doctor’s lips formed into a tight, nervous smile. They looked exactly like Enzo had recalled, much like the rest of Cass. He wore his hear in a neat bun, slicked back and perfect. His face was still perfectly sculpted like marble, chiseled jawline and beautiful features still intact after three years. 

“H-Holy fuck, Cass… it’s actually you…” Enzo is still in shock, wondering if he should pinch himself to make sure it wasn’t a dream. 

Cass’ eyes darted to the side, awkwardly, as he sought the words to say. 

“I have good news, and I have bad news for you,”.


	5. Stained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s certain his touch lingered a second too long, overthinks it as he draws back into himself again.

The first words Cass spoke to him in three years… and _not_ what he was expecting. 

After subconscious dreams about this very moment, wasting time entertaining the notion of somehow meeting again, piled atop countless fantasies… it caught Enzo too off-guard for his own good. 

“W-what?” 

Cass met Enzo’s gaze, boldly, enough to make him feel smaller than he usually would. His eyes held an unrelenting hardness to them. Instantly, Enzo felt as though they were back in the ring again, scripted to hate one another indefinitely. There was no relieved smiles and tight hugs, absence of a joyful reunion, and just painful static between them. 

“I have good news, and bad news,” Cass repeated again, slower, “Which one would you like to hear first?” 

“Might as well take th’ worst of it first, right?” he asked, trying to make conversation wherever he could. It didn’t help that Cass was acting as though they hadn’t even met before. 

“The bad news, is you’ve got illegal drugs in your bloodstream,” he paused for beat, “I don’t think I need to tell you what they are, because you obviously took them,”.

If Enzo could have picked _anyone_ to know about his drug-addicted ways, Cass would have been the last person on that list. Shit, he'd rather tell Dolph. 

It was an embarrassment that Cass silently let him marinate in, before he’d continue on with whatever good news might come out of this. Shamefully, he covered his face with a pair of tattooed hands, pressing both palms into his closed eyes. 

“The good news?” 

“I’m not going to tell anyone,”. 

The words don’t quite register with him, because he’s already admitted defeat. Somewhere behind him, Enzo tunes into the tick-tocking of a clock. He feels Cass’ eyes burning holes through him with their unyielding gaze. 

Slowly, Enzo’s hands drop down into his lap like weights, and he looks to the man before him with bewilderment. 

“Whad’dya mean…?

It’s that moment when Cass glances behind him, making sure the door is shut and they’re alone. He rubs the bridge of his nose like he always did, Enzo knew, whenever he was in deep thought about something. 

God, he wanted to reach out and just _touch_ Cass. He never fully realized how beautiful the man was. 

“Eric…” he began, softly, using Enzo’s birth name in a way he hadn't before. 

As long as they’d been wrestling together, even in their most intimate moments of friendship and fits of anger, he’d never used Enzo’s real name before. It sounded foreign, not quite right coming from his tongue. 

“I’m not trying to fix whatever happened, and I don’t feel like I owe anything to you… Hell, this goes against every oath I’ve taken as a doctor. This goes beyond against any and all moral beliefs I’ve…-“ 

Enzo cuts him off towards the end of his sentence, “If it’s such a problem for ya, doctor, I’m not askin’ ya to lie for me! Shit, just tell ‘em what you found and I’ll put my wrists behind my back like a good boy when the time comes,”. 

Anger bubbles up from somewhere deep inside the wrestler’s chest. He doesn’t want Cass or anyone else to take pity on him, and give him the easy way out because of it. 

“It ain’t like that,” Cass manages to keep his composure, despite Enzo’s raised voice, “Anyone in your position should be given a chance before they’re hauled off to prison and put in the same space as murderers and rapists, don’t you think so?” 

Enzo remains silent. 

“So, I’m going to botch your lab results. You’ll have a standard case of alcohol poisoning with dehydration, and it looks better than nothing,”. 

He resists the urge to push the subject, because he knows better than to interrogate Cass. The situation is all multiple tiers of fucked and confusing, he wonders if Dolph and Carmella will even believe him. The other man takes a seat at the computer beside Enzo’s bed, and begins tapping away at the keys. 

Enzo wants to ask Cass so many questions in this moment, because he’s entirely uncertain as to whether or not they’ll see one another again. He wants to ask him how he’s been and if he’s okay. He wants to hear Cass talk to him about the struggles he faced entering medical school, and how he overcame each one. Maybe he’ll learn about what was going through Cass’ head during their final matches together, but maybe his ex-partner isn’t really that hard of a book to read. He really wants to ask Cass how much longer this internship will last, because at least he knows where to find him until then. 

“Since I’m letting you go like this, I need you to promise me that you’re going to stop,”. 

Enzo’s face pales, and he _should_ have known there was a catch to all this. 

It wasn’t fair of Cass to ask him, because the damn giant knew he couldn’t say no to him, despite the circumstances. He was playing on Enzo’s weakness, and this was going to be anything but easy. 

“I’d give you the card of a support group, but I doubt it’s anything you’d do much with. All I can do, Eric, is ask you to stop for _you_ ,”. 

If Enzo had seen a point in stopping for himself, he’d have done it long ago. Nevertheless, he was in absolutely no position to argue with two doctors chattering right outside his door. This was his second chance, a twist of bizarre fate, and he’d try his god damned hardest for Cass. 

He wasn't going to try for the deadpan-emotionless doctor Cass who sat before him after three years, but for the in-ring partner and best friend Cass. The one who would have believed in him, sat beside him all night, losing sleep to make sure Enzo didn't lose himself. 

“Alright,” he says dryly. 

Cass spins around in his chair and reaches a hand out to Enzo, the atmosphere suddenly warmer than it had been during their entire encounter. On instinct, Enzo wrapped his hand around the other’s and savored what warmth it gave him. 

He’s certain his touch lingered a second too long, overthinks it as he draws back into himself again. 

“If ya need me… you know where to find me, alright? And make sure there’s someone able to come and pick you up. I don’t want you to drive,”. 

Cass didn’t wait for a reply as he turned his back and hurriedly left the room, shutting the door behind him. A nurse came in no later than five minutes afterwards, removing the IV from his forearm and various sticky pads from his chest. As she fussed over him, Enzo still felt in a daze. It all seemed so surreal and too coincidental, but here he was. 

Hell, his hand still felt warm from their awkward exchange, like Cass had somehow managed to stain his skin with a simple handshake.


	6. Famine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was a different story.

Exactly three days passed since Enzo Amore had eaten a real meal, and Chinese takeout could hardly be classified as, “real” food. 

His time required to stay in Orlando was fleeting, slipping between his fingers. The visit was already half over, with one week remaining out of the two. The final live performance was slated for tomorrow, and procrastination was the Devil himself when it came to Enzo booking flights. 

Any gaps between performances was his to spend how he pleased. 

Currently, he was enjoying a lazy Sunday night at his favorite Italian pizzeria with Carmella. It was a little family-owned joint that withstood the test of peeling wallpaper, hurricanes, and two small kitchen fires. He’d discovered the place at age 26, and favored it whenever he came to Orlando. 

If you asked him, Enzo’s absolute favorite part was watching them toss and knead the dough.

“So… like, he recognized you right away?” Carmella asked around a mouthful of melted cheese and black olives. 

“I’m thinkin’ so. I mean… he acted all weird an’ stuff. Think I saw him standin’ outside’a my door before he came in, like he was rehearsin’ what he was gonna say to me,”. Enzo shook his head at the memory, relieved to feel comfortable enough in his own skin, almost an entire day later to share the story with Carmella. 

At least, most of what was true of it. 

“So…? What happened next?” 

“I mean, he told me I wasn’t in trouble for bein’ publicly intoxicated, seein’ as I didn’t bother nobody. Had me hooked up to an IV for awhile to get some fluids back in me, then sent me on my way like he did three years ago,”. 

Enzo still hasn’t learned to watch his mouth after and hopes Carmella doesn’t find the pain within the end of the sentence. Reading his emotions is something she’s always had a knack for, but he tries to keep his feelings for Cass buried as deep as possible. 

“I’m sure he let you off because he felt bad about what he did, and he should. It doesn’t really fix things, but it’s a step in the right direction,”. 

Her positivity was just what he needed right then, and although he didn’t quite agree, Enzo just nodded with a tight smile around his food.

Thankfully, the rest of their conversations were on lighter topics. They cracked jokes about Triple H and his rapidly expanding bad spot, Bobby Roode’s obvious crush on Carmella despite the almost nine-year age gap, and her upcoming vacation to the Bahamas. 

It was… nice. He wished things could always be this normal, and it made him thankful to Carmella for dragging his ass out of the motel. 

When she drops him off that night, stomach full and body tired, Enzo’s alone with his thoughts. 

Desperately, he tries to distract himself with mundane tasks. Suddenly, the room could be tidier, it wasn’t cool enough, and it felt like there was a mosquito taunting him by landing on his body before flying to another spot. 

Enzo could never before manage to surpass the 48-hour withdrawal period – or even reach it. It was one thing when he was active, keeping his hands and mind preoccupied, making it much more bearable. Alone in the very city where he’d lost connection to his family, yet provided with all the connections he needed to get the same fix he had back home to keep his chronic anxiety hushed... 

That was a different story. 

The hot and cold flashes wouldn’t go away, and Enzo was convinced that he would see much less sleep tonight than the night before. 

It’s then, somewhere in his jumbled conscious and like a flicker of light, Enzo recalls the hospital discharge paperwork he was handed. Curiosity snatches the best of him, wondering if there’s some contact info that could lead him to Cass. 

After all, it _would_ be unfair to make Enzo detox, just because Cass said so, without some help. Enzo needed someone to talk to, who understood his situation and could keep his mind preoccupied. 

He’s flicking through the mess of wrinkled papers, skimming each line twice over. The best he could do was the hospital’s front desk, at the risk of looking like a desperate creep.   
“Alright,” he mutters, practicing several breathing exercises. When he’s coming down, his voice always shakes and stutters, and his god damned paranoia screams to him. 

Enzo dials the number, which rings twice before greeting him with an automated service. The woman’s voice is so nasally, he can hardly concentrate as she reads off the options. 

When he presses a number to indicate, “patient and employee service,” it’s entirely the wrong thing and shit, he didn’t mean to do that. He thinks he told the system he wanted lab test results, gone and fucked everything up again. 

“Orlando Regional Medical Center, Lab Results and Testing. Please state your first and last name, and why you are calling today,”. 

“U-uh… Enzo Amore,” he pauses, “B-but I’m not no patient or anything! I think I pressed the wrong button, but I just have a quick question,”. 

There’s a moment of silence, realizing he probably caught her off-guard with his stupidity. 

“Sure, what can I do for you?” 

“Is Colin Cassady working right now?” Enzo twirls his finger through the looping cord of the motel landline, heart pounding furiously in his chest. He just needs to talk to someone who knows, who can talk him through it, and Cass is that person.

“Um… I’m not quite sure. We don’t usually keep records of who’s working somewhere easily accessible. I could find out for you, if you’d like,”. 

Enzo chews his lower lip nervously, peeling off a small bit of chapped skin. 

“I mean… I saw him a coupl’a days ago and he’s the only one who really understands the situation I’m in…-“ he’s cut off by low-quality holding music before he can entirely justify his reason for sounding like a stalker. It was late, and she probably didn't give a rat's ass. 

What if Cass didn’t pick up?

Doing more heroin was out of the question. Totally out of his mind and wanting to please a man he’d probably never talk to again, Enzo flushed his syringe and supply down the toilet immediately after walking through the door. Probably not the most environmentally-friendly option, but he certainly couldn’t risk leaving paraphernalia behind. 

“Hi, are you still holding?” the familiar, feminine voice asks. Enzo is quick to press the phone unnecessarily tight against his ear. 

“Yeah,”. 

“Unfortunately, he’s not in right now. He should be back sometime tomorrow morning if you need to see him. Would you like me to schedule a lab appointment? He isn’t really a doctor, but…” 

Before she could finish, Enzo hung up the phone with a harsh slam to the receiver.

Anxiety plagued the wrestler with ridiculous thoughts and doubts, questioning whether or not his addiction would become known as a scandal. Would he be shunned like Alberto Del Rio and Paige? What if he woke up in the morning, face plastered on Sports Entertainment and police knocking on the motel door? What if his mother shunned him forever, instead of five years? Would the detox kill him by morning? What if his hot flashes got so intense, he had heat stroke? He couldn’t afford another hospital trip without Cass as his doctor to lie for him. 

With invisible weights attached to his arms, Enzo undressed behind a closed bathroom door, despite being alone. He splashed water on his face, but not without taking notice of his messy beard and bloodshot eyes. 

Fuck Cass for not being there, when he was the one who made Enzo agree to this. 

Fuck him for making Enzo realize how much of a lovelorn junkie he was. He wondered if Cass got off to the thought of still being needed. 

He’d make him pay.


	7. Glorious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Certainly, he’s got butterflies, but nothing like before.

Enzo awakes in a stupor – only half of his tanned body draped half-ass across the bed. The taste of morning breath in his mouth isn’t very appealing, and neither is the soreness of his muscles. 

Whatever the hell his ridiculous side-effects were from coming off the dope, he absolutely couldn’t _afford_ to let them show tonight. 

It wasn’t until noon when he’d finally managed to pull himself together with a shower and something he called, “pre-show self-maintenance”. Despite what most viewers would think, he did trim his beard and eyebrows to a presentable sort of messiness. The task wasn't easy to accomplish in a motel bathroom, and he almost felt bad for leaving little fragments of clipped hair on the inside of the sink for someone else to clean.

He was slated for the main event, which was a match for his Intercontinental Championship. AJ Styles was next to nothing in terms of competition. Not that he would, but Enzo could probably beat him whilst drugged entirely out of his brain. 

Sometime, lost within all the preparation, he received an incoming video call from Roman and Seth. Unfortunately, he wasn’t very proficient at operating his phone. He used it only ever as a miniature laptop, connecting to Wi-Fi spots when needed. He hated phone calls – and any type of call – but couldn’t help but grin when Seth’s pixelated face filled the screen. 

“Hey!” his voice echoes through the speaker with horrible backlash, “Heard the news, you feeling better?”

He appreciates Seth’s fake concern, truly. 

“Not worse for wear,” although judging by his camera, he’s got some visible bags under his eyes, “Who told ya?” 

“I mean, when you hurl your guts out 500 feet from the Performance Center, and people see you on television each week…” Roman chimed in from the background, “Word spreads fast,”. 

Fuck, there it is again. The anxiety. 

“Yeah? Talkin’ shit?”

“Nah,” Seth laughs, “Just that your ass was drunk as fuck, said you reeked of alcohol, too. Even Vince heard some funny stuff, but nothing funny enough to get you out of tonight’s match,”. 

Their banter doesn’t last much longer, as the two ex-Shield boys have preparing of their own to do. 

Enzo is relieved, and he feels a faint glimmer of hope, because maybe, just _maybe_ , he can put this part of his past behind him without so much worry. 

Despite his lack of any appetite, Enzo scarfs down several slices of leftover pizza, two bottles of Gatorade, and one of those soggy microwavable apple pies. A cocktail of pills go down his throat, each with their own purpose: ibuprofen to pacify his physical aches and Vicodin for the mental ones. Topping the mixture off with a fat multi-vitamin horse pill, he downs six cups of water.

Carmella arrives early in the afternoon to pick him up, several hours before RAW. He thinks it’s utterly ridiculous for them to waste four hours doing practically nothing, but he also knows other members insist on having the time for themselves to prepare. All Enzo really wants is a shower, and to be left the hell alone.

They pass the hospital at some point during the ten-minute drive, and Enzo’s blue eyes linger on it for a second too long. He pictures Cass standing tall in his white coat, hair neatly pulled back, and chases the image out of his mind as quickly as it came. 

Once they arrive at Orlando City Stadium, it’s already buzzing with activity. Set-up had occurred the night before, and the ring stood proudly surrounded by thousands of empty seats. Twp years ago, the venue was exclusive to soccer events, which Florida never saw much of. By a unanimous vote, it was decided the stadium become home to all sporting activities. Soccer fans didn’t quite welcome them with open arms. 

Enzo couldn’t care, wet and hot as he stood beneath the spray of a much-needed shower. His blonde mop was heavy atop his head, and he could feel days of sweat being shed from his sun-kissed skin. 

Not even sex could compare to this. 

Somehow, everything moves very quickly. Wrestlers for the night trickle in, Enzo polishes his Intercontinental Championship title in the locker room, and changes into his ring-gear because the baggy camo khakis are much more comfortable than his own clothes. Unsurprisingly, he’s pulled aside by a doctor for a physical examination, passing with a, “clean bill of health”. Something about that statement makes Enzo chuckle to himself. 

Everything seems okay, and Enzo thinks he can finally manage himself tonight. 

It’s a notion that’s put to the ultimate test not too soon afterwards. 

Backstage, Enzo Amore watches a three-on-one handicap match, and a Women’s match between Bayley and Nikki Bella. He tries not to let the indistinct, muffled roar of the crowd kick up his anxieties. 

“You’re up soon,” Dolph Ziggler claps a hand on Enzo’s shoulder, visibly starting him. 

“Can’t fuckin’ wait,” he mutters sarcastically, eyes glued to the promo Roman Reigns effortlessly delivers. 

“Yeah, I know,” Dolph laughs, “Like there’s any competition, right? C’mon, it’ll take you like, five minutes,”. 

He’s sure Dolph took his sarcasm the wrong way, but it doesn’t surprise him. 

The next two matches end as quickly as they began. One of which, Dolph ran in on during the very end to defend Finn Balor from a devastating loss against The Miz. It was noble, really. Enzo Amore knew deep down, his best friend would do the exact same thing for him. 

Preferably without getting destroyed by a figure-four and looking like RAW’s greatest fool. 

To Enzo, the tension becomes palpable when AJ Styles walks into the same room, shooting a malicious glare towards the Intercontinental Champ. Both of men are here because they’re next, and he knows it. He’s got approximately five minutes to get himself together. 

As Enzo emerges from backstage to the sound of his entrance music, championship title slung over his shoulder, the crowd erupts into cheers. 

Certainly, he’s got butterflies, but nothing like before. The atmosphere in lively, and he greedily soaks it all up. Enzo feels warm underneath the spotlight, skillfully twirling his microphone adorned in cheetah-print in his hand. 

He couldn’t _wait_ for this. He couldn’t wait to get in there and speak, hype up the crowd for the match and feel like he was doing everything right for once. Those in the crowd who weren't cheering and clapping for him, were singing along to his theme. Bouncing down the ramp felt glorious, like this was his unspoken second chance.

Just as he makes it to ringside, the atmosphere abruptly shifts. 

He can hear loud yells and shrieks, but doesn’t understand why until there’s a foot on his back and his face meets the hard apron surface. Almost immediately, his cheek begins throbbing from the impact. 

Enzo Amore helplessly drops the Intercontinental Title - and himself - to the hard floor.


	8. Mindless Behavior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, nothing could prepare Enzo for himself.

“Enzo Amore, do you _truly_ believe this is a check your ass can cash?” 

The world is turned upside-down, but he knows the taunting voice belongs to AJ Styles. The left side of his face aches something awful, and it’s like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. 

“Because, judging by how you look right now… laying on the floor, while the WWE Universe looks down on you the same way everyone always has? I don’t think it is,”. 

The microphone drops right beside Enzo’s face as he’s picked up beneath both arms and tossed like a ragdoll carelessly into the ring. Once AJ joins him, the bell clangs three times to signal the beginning of the match. 

Once Enzo finally manages to right himself, he’s seeing spots, reaching for AJ and backing him into the turnbuckle by the shoulders. He launches a series of kicks, sending the brunette to the mat. AJ is visibly red with anger, and Enzo wonders if there’s some grudge being held against him. 

They throw each other around the ring and into corners until AJ’s hands wrap around Enzo’s waist. They’re calloused, too strong, hoisting him into the air and delivering a Pendulum Backbreaker. Enzo writhes in pain for a moment as his already aching spine jolts again, groaning. 

When Styles goes for the pin, he forces himself to kick out at two counts. 

Again, Styles grapples him onto his feet, and Enzo cuts off whatever attack he’s about to unleash with a single dropkick. It’s hard, a satisfyingly loud foot-to-cheek sound echoing between his ears as AJ falls. 

“Ya’ askin’ for some of this?!” he roars above loud cheers, blood boiling. 

More than anything, Enzo hated being at a disadvantage. AJ Styles certainly wasn’t the first person to pull that disrespectful stunt on him, and with his carefree gangster reputation, AJ wouldn’t be the last. 

He was always a man to speak his mind, in the ring or otherwise. In fact, he prided himself on having enough guts to tell someone his brutal opinion of them to their face, rather than giggling behind their back in the locker room. Enzo's unfiltered mouth had earned him quite the reputation over the years, and served more as a weapon than a lesson.

Anger bubbled up inside of him as AJ rose to his feet, delivering a hit to the side of Enzo’s head in retaliation. 

Enzo Amore thinks about Cass in that moment, out of all moments. He wonders where they’d be right now if they were still a team, knows AJ wouldn’t stand a chance. He doesn’t think Cass could comprehend everything Enzo’s gone through, while Cass took off like it was nothing to become a successful hospital intern. 

All of Enzo’s feelings about Cass – and himself – rose dangerously to the surface. 

His fist collides hard enough with Styles’ cheek to knock his opponent backwards onto the mat. Desperate and wearing down, he goes for the pin. 

AJ kicks out of it, almost at three counts, and Enzo isn’t in his body anymore. 

He spits profanity at the referee, who looks quite taken aback. 

On his knees, one fist after another is swinging relentlessly at AJ. He tries to grab them, reverse this somehow, but Enzo doesn’t give him the time of day. His fists power through any attempts to stop them, and AJ begins flailing his legs like a drowning man. 

Blood pools on AJ’s lower lip, having been split open from one of the blows. The referee signals for Enzo to stop, and he sees it out of the corner of his eye – knows he should stop. 

Whether it’s coming down from the drugs, or pure anger, he doesn’t know. But he just _can’t fucking stop_.

Enzo is like a machine, assaulting the wounded face underneath his fists mindlessly. A pair of hands grab at his shoulders, but he cannot be jostled away. A whistle blows, and two other referees haul ass from backstage, sliding into the ring to contain Enzo. 

AJ Styles is limp, no longer fighting against the punches. Why hadn't he noticed that sooner? 

They’re grabbing at him from behind and restraining his arms, dragging Enzo into a corner. His vision is blurry, but he squints to see several thin streams of red running down the sides of AJ’s face. 

The stadium’s chants of, “This is awesome,” fade gradually into uncomfortable silence, as they realize this was certainly not planned. 

“You need to stay back,” one of the referees asserts to Enzo, like he’s some wild animal. 

It isn’t surprising to see two medical staff members carry a gurney out, strapping AJ down and carrying him away. Enzo wonders how much trouble he’s going to be in, how he should explain the behavior, and whether he’d be footing the medical bills of this schmuck. 

What the ever-loving _fuck_ was he thinking? 

As the medical staff turns their attention to Enzo, he’s surprised. He wasn’t hurt, was he? 

They aren’t afraid to approach him, and Enzo doesn’t really care. He’s dizzy and can barely manage to keep his eyes open through exhaustion. 

When one of the men touches his hand, it burns, making him instantly recoil. 

“I’d venture to say you tore open two knuckles,” he nods towards one of Enzo’s fists, split open and making a bloody mess all over himself, “Probably split them on his teeth if anything. Looks like you’re in need of a hospital trip, too,”. 

Enzo cringes, because he doesn’t really want to go back there and face Cass again. Not right now. He doesn’t want to be the same man, incapable of doing anything on his own. He doesn't want to give Cass the satisfaction all these years later. 

“I’d suggest you go. If not for the stitches you need, at least to get cleaned and bandaged up,”. 

Begrudgingly, he agrees. 

The medical staff reluctantly helped Enzo to his feet after convincing them he could stand. They eased him out of the ring, two men on either side and supporting his weight up the ramp. 

On his way out, Enzo catches a glimpse of Kurt Angle standing visibly in front of the ramp, arms folded across his broad chest and bald head shaking in disappointment. Frankly, Kurt Angle was the last person Enzo Amore cared about disappointing. 

He’s still shell-shocked, and this all feels like one horrific, drug-induced nightmare. He’d done absolutely everything possible to prepare for this night, physically and mentally. 

Unfortunately, nothing could prepare Enzo for himself.


	9. A Spark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows he must love Cass in some way, because otherwise he wouldn't be here right now, both finding and losing himself in the pair of darker eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this chapter, I plan to write one more to end the story. Warning: the final chapter will be NSFW. 
> 
> I hope it was an enjoyable read. These two boys melt my heart.

Enzo Amore is the furthest from being a medical expert, but he knows a few things about hospitals. One of them, is each visit is like a grab bag. They’ll give you someone different every time, until you’ve sampled the entire staff. 

He _knows_ he’s being a stubborn asshole, refusing to see anyone unless they’re Cass. He convinces himself it’s because Cass is the only person who knows him, who knows about his habit. If Enzo had seen anyone else that day, his career would have been over. 

Two doctors had tried their luck with him. He argued with the first nurse until she agreed to, “see what she could do,”. The second doctor tried talking Enzo down, telling him Cass "didn’t work with patients in need of stitches", just basic information and lab-results. If he couldn't break through this barrier, he'd have to simply maneuver around it. 

“Well, maybe I’d like to have my blood pressure checked, huh?” Enzo insisted, to which the second doctor sent him back out to the lobby in a huff. He was surprised security hadn’t been called by the receptionist sitting behind her computer and shooting him funny looks from behind her dark-rimmed glasses. It didn't occur to Enzo that maybe - just maybe - some crashing heroin-addict of a wrestler with his knuckles split open, raising commotion within the usually calm hospital might attract a few ugly looks.

Almost an hour later, slumped in a chair with his legs spread and arms crossed, his name is called by a familiar voice. 

Cass. 

“About fuckin’ time,”.

“Don’t you think you’re in a little too much trouble to be talking like that?” the giant breathes, leading Enzo into a room different than where they’d been before. 

“Ya heard?” 

“Had an idea something was wrong when I heard about some punk who ‘looked like a cockatiel’ making excuses to see me,” he closes the door behind them, and they’re alone again. The room is so quiet, aside from the clapping of shoes on white tile. 

“Who told you that?” Enzo fumed, his face growing warm up to the tips of his ears.

“Nobody, sit down,” Cass pats the exam table in the middle of the room, and the thin paper on top makes a crinkling noise when Enzo sits. 

Somehow, it makes him feel like a child again.

“You need to understand that I’m only an intern here. This isn’t a full-time, permanent gig yet. Be careful, goin’ around and pissing off the people who trained me, because you want to see me,” he lightly scolds.

“Besides that, I don’t think I need to give you an exam. The person you don’t need to see is me, because I can’t stitch you back together again,”. 

Cass steps back just enough, like he’s trying to give Enzo space to get down from the table, stop acting ridiculous, and just get himself stitched up. 

Enzo’s _much_ more complicated than that. He's glaring down hard with knitted brows, pretending to look at his blood-stained knuckles.

“I know I don’t need to see you or nothin’,” he admits, “But I wanted to tell you that I haven’t shot up in about four days. It’s been a real livin’ hell, especially without any medication to actually help, but I did it because you asked me to,”.

Cass opens his mouth to speak, but Enzo raises a bloody hand to interrupt him.

“Even three years later, after all of that, I was willing to give up my addiction. Just because you, _Cass_ , asked me too. Hell, you could’a asked me to dive off a bridge and into a fuckin’ canyon. I would for you,".

He’s aware that by the end of the night, it’s very possible he could lose his career. It’s also possible he could lose Cass again, but he’s come too far to turn around and pretend nothing happened - that this was just a fleeting memory to be forgotten. 

“I wouldn’t do that shit just because you were my partner once, Cass. I don’t cling to just fuckin’ anybody like that,”.

Enzo’s mouth is moving a mile ahead of his brain. It’s all coming out as word-vomit, and he doesn’t really know how to stop it. 

“I’d do it because I love you, Cass. Even back then, I loved you so fuckin’ much. You mean to tell me you didn’t see it when ya’ picked me up to throw me down that goddamned ramp and I held on to you? When ya asked why I always wanted you around? You couldn’t see it, because in the end, you were just blinded by your possibility to succeed. When that didn’t work out, ya left,”. 

Enzo’s scruffy face is red-hot with embarrassment and his eyes begin stinging. He hasn’t been able to look at Cass the entire time, choosing to raise his voice at the taller man’s chest instead. This whole thing is honestly ridiculous, childish, and he should be over it by now. 

He couldn’t tell whether the uncomfortable silence was because Cass was shocked, or waiting to make sure nobody else beyond the tiny office heard. 

“Enzo…” it’s spoken gently, in a way that prompted him to finally meet his ex-partner’s gaze. 

Cass’ eyes had gone soft, in a way Enzo never saw before. They looked directly through him, and his heart was in his throat all too quickly. There was some wonder in how the man before him seemed utterly lost for anything to say, parting his lips just slightly before pursing them together, like Cass wanted to talk and couldn't pull the words from his throat. 

“I owe you an apology for everything that happened before, and I know I’ve been avoiding it. I’ll be the first to admit it. The reason I left the WWE wasn’t because of you, and it wasn’t to pursue this… ‘dream’,”. Cass rubbed a hand over his face, which looked much more worn than last time, “If you could even call it that. I lived out of a one-room studio apartment for nine months to make ends meet before I was accepted here,”. 

“So, why…?” 

Only then, does Cass take a slow half-step closer. He’s quiet for moments, which pass like an eternity. Enzo thinks he can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, because he didn’t know any of this. 

A hand, warm and comforting, clasps his shoulder. It squeezes, as if Enzo could disappear any moment, and Cass needs to keep him right where he is, just this once. 

“I left because I fell in love with you, Enzo. Once I realized it, staying there wasn’t an option for me. I… truly hated spending my days doubting if you felt the same, and hated them even more when we couldn’t be tag-team partners. So, I kind of pushed you away. That…” he pauses and draws in a shaky sigh, “Was the last thing I ever wanted. I also did it because, fuck, I _cared_ about what everyone else thought of me. I couldn't be like you, Enzo. If those fans would have gotten word of two men having a relationship in the business... well, I was thinking of myself,". 

Holy shit. 

The first thing Enzo wants to do is be mad at Cass. He wants to blow up on him, and ask if he’s had any idea what he put him through. He wants to tell Cass that all of this could have been avoided, if he’d just swallowed his pride and fucking said something. Instead, he chose it over their friendship. Enzo wants to be so hurt and confused, because he’s gone through everything alone the past three years, and it could have been so much different. Go figure, he would be the one to climb mountains and swim oceans for Cass back then, and the man couldn't even cross a bridge for him.

He takes all the swears and accusations he wants to fling at his ex-partner, and folds them away somewhere at the back of his mind. 

He should be livid with Cass right now, but he can't. Not when the man just tore down every wall he's built over the years within the time-span of five minutes. This man, right now, was trying to make amends with everything he'd done years ago. 

He stood before Enzo with his heart on his sleeve, all soft eyes and quiet voice like he'd just been punched in the gut. 

A whole minute of complete silence passes. Everything is just so new, because Enzo allowed himself to believe in his own assumptions for all these years. It's like a rug has been pulled out from underneath him, and it feels like he's in free-fall. 

“I love you, Cass,” he blurts, matter-of-fact. Enzo feels a weight lifting from his shoulders as the words fall. He knows he must love Cass in some way, because otherwise he wouldn't be here right now, both finding and losing himself in the pair of darker eyes.

In return, Cass smiled. He actually beamed, it wasn’t the tight-lipped and reserved kind Enzo had seen before. He was all teeth and hopeful eyes, and both of them needed that. Enzo drank his reaction in like cold water to a dehydrated man, because it was something he only dared dream about on the lonely nights in hotels he used to stay in with Cass.

“Let’s get you stitched up, ‘Zo,”. 

Hearing the old nickname Cass had affectionately given him back in their days together stirred butterflies within the pit of Enzo's stomach as he sat on the table. He knew they would be okay, and he was no longer wandering around in the dark looking for someone to believe in him. Cass had become a spark in a dimly lit room, and Enzo couldn't have been more thankful for his split skin and aching face.


End file.
